


Intrusions of Real Life into Insanity

by glacis



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Giardello and Detective Bayliss solve a case, and come to an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intrusions of Real Life into Insanity

_Intrusions_

The majority of the bodies sweating on the free weights and pulling at the Nautilus strings were police. Men, women, didn't matter. They ran on the treadmills, squeezed on the lifts and strained against the steel. Tim Bayliss counted off reps to himself and tried, hard, not to think about the fact that he was surrounded by enough eye candy to keep his hormones happy for months.

Not that it was easy. They were his coworkers, yeah. Some of them were friends. A few, lovers. Or ex-lovers, anyway. And most of the rest were very definitely off-limits. Especially that one.

The newest fixture in the Homicide unit wasn't a police. He was a Fed. But he was one of theirs by default, since he was Gee's kid. Squinting through the sweat steaming his glasses, Tim reflected that the body currently doing lat pulls hadn't been a kid for awhile. Tim gritted his teeth, wished he'd taken his glasses off before he'd started, and muscled his way through the last three reps. His muscles were trembling by the time he gently lowered the bar onto its rest.

Wasn't just fatigue.

With a silent prayer of thanks for loose sweat pants, he sat up, leaned over, took off his glasses and mopped his face. A nearly-muffled snort of laughter caught his attention, and he looked over at Ballard. She was just finishing a set of biceps curls.

"What?" he asked, half grinning in response to her own mischievous smile.

"Kid in a candy shop." He held up his hands, ready to deny anything and everything, and she chuckled. "S'okay. I'm there, too."

He gave up the effort and ran the towel over his head. Maybe hiding would work.

"You know," she continued, quiet enough so that only he could hear her, "Mike saw me watching Falsone in the ring awhile back. Told me he wished someone would look at him like that." Tim peeked around the edge of the towel. Her smile had softened, was more wistful than teasing now. "Looks like he got his wish."

"You're seeing things, Ballard," he tried. She didn't buy it.

"So're you. You should ask him out." She was serious. His eyes just about popped out of his head.

"Are you nuts? He'd eat me for breakfast!"

"You hope," she quipped, and he covered his own smirk with the towel. "No, Tim, I'm serious. You don't know if you don't ask." With that, she got up, toweled off the bench, and moved over to the treadmills, tossing an encouraging grin at him over her shoulder. He stared off after her. She had to be kidding.

"Somebody get lucky?" It was Falsone, and the question had a hard edge. Tim looked up at him and smiled.

"Not lately," he cracked, then sat back on the bench and started lifting. This would take some thought.

He was out of his mind. But he just might do it.

 

The Waterfront was a good place for a new guy to hang out and learn things. Most of the Homicide unit came by, at one time or another, and tended to drop their guard a little bit more than they did under his father's watchful eye. Mike Giardello had been an FBI agent for a few years, now, but he'd never been a liaison before. And he'd never had to work so closely with his Dad. It was not a comfortable situation, to say the least. Rocky waters, complete with piranha and sharks. His stay in Baltimore had begun with the loss of his favorite relative, and was continuing with close contact with his least favorite relative. It left him feeling a little like he was taking target practice in a blindfold.

And he was the target.

It was getting late, about time for him to head on home, when a platter of smothered pork chops and fried apple rings settled in front of him. He inhaled, instinctively closing his eyes, before looking askance up at Tim Bayliss, looming over him and grinning down at him. "What's this?"

"Dinner. With blackberry jam cake to follow."

"I thought Baltimore specialized in seafood?" His hand had picked up a fork and sliced into the steaming meat without his being aware of it. He must have been hungrier than he thought.

"Yeah, plus some recipes we all liberated from our mothers. This one came from Lewis' grandmother. It's pretty good, and you look like you could use something to warm you up."

"I look cold?" Mike asked, nodding to the other chair. "You hungry?"

"Nah, I ate. But yes, you look like you could use some food. When was the last time you ate?"

Mike stared off into the distance as the pork melted on his tongue. "Uhm, breakfast? Donut?"

Bayliss shook his head. "No wonder you look like a strong wind could carry you off."

"You playing mother, now?" He didn’t stop eating. It was great.

"No, just … well. I was wondering … no. Forget it."

Mike's appetite started to disappear, and the familiar knot of tension began to wind around his guts. "What?" he asked, laying his fork down.

"It's nothing, really. Eat your dinner."

He glared at the detective who was currently mothering him. Bright eyes hidden behind screening glasses looked at the tabletop, the floor, the food on Mike's plate, the window, everywhere but at Mike. He clenched his jaw before forcibly relaxing it. "Yes, dear." Bayliss gave him a startled look. "So, does this have something to do with my father?"

"God, I hope not!" Bayliss' reaction rang true. Okay, maybe it was a territorial thing.

"What, is it about my being an FBI agent? Because I'm just a liaison, Detective, I'm not here to step on anyone's toes." He prodded an apple ring viciously.

"I know that," Bayliss answered softly. "And my name's Tim."

Mike sighed and gave up on his food. "Right. Tim. So tell me." Bayliss hemmed and hawed for a moment, and Mike growled, "Just say it!"

Looking like a man heading for the firing squad, Bayliss spoke quickly and quietly. "I don't want to offend you, or insult you in any way, but I find you attractive and was wondering if you would like to go out with me sometime." It all came out in one breath. Then he took a deep gulp of air, drummed his fingertips on the tabletop, and cleared his throat.

Mike stared at him. For a very long time. The longer he stared, the younger Bayliss looked, until he resembled nothing so much as a ten year old who'd just confessed to breaking the bay window and was waiting to get smacked. Eventually, Mike smiled.

"Who put you up to this?"

Bayliss stared back. Confusion clouded his features, and he said, hesitantly, "Well, Ballard encouraged me to at least ask. Said I wouldn't get anywhere if I didn’t try."

Swallowing several times in succession, glad he didn't have any food in his mouth or he'd surely have choked, Mike underwent a mental readjustment as he realized that Bayliss actually _meant_ it. "Uh, I, hm." No wonder Tim'd been scrabbling for words. Before he could figure out what to say, Bayliss jumped back in.

"It's okay, I understand. I'm sorry.-"

Mike held up a hand to stop the flow of words. "It's okay. Really, Tim. I mean, if I were into guys, which I'm not, I'd say yes. I like you, what I know of you, and I think you're attractive, yourself, I guess. Just not my type, you know?" Tim smiled shyly at him, eyes glued to the tabletop again. "I didn't know you were gay?" From the way Bayliss and Sheppard hung out, not to mention Ballard and Stivers, this was a bit of a shock. Tim sighed.

"Well, you know." Mike's wide-eyed look made it clear that no, he didn't. Bayliss tried again. "I like women." He swallowed. "I like men." He risked a glance up at Mike, and seemed reassured by what he saw in Mike's face. "It’s the person, you know? Not the package."

Mike nodded to show he understood, although he was still processing what he'd just heard, and mechanically forked a bite of apple into his mouth. As he was chewing, Bayliss shot him another glance or two, then forced a smile.

"Well, enjoy your dinner."

He started to get up, and Mike swallowed fast. Holding out the hand that wasn't holding the fork, he asked, "I don't know a lot of people around here, Tim, and I appreciate the friendly overtures I get. Would you like to go out for dinner one of these days? As friends?"

Bayliss grinned, a little less shyly this time. "I'd like that."

Mike smiled back. "Good. Me too." Finding his appetite returned, he attacked the rest of his dinner. Bayliss wandered over to the bar and starting cleaning glasses. When Mike was finished, he left a generous tip. That had taken guts on Bayliss' part. Mike looked forward to getting to know the man better.

As friends. Of course.

 

"Agent Giardello."

"Hi, Mike, this is Tim over at Homicide. Got a call in, and thought I'd give you a heads up on it."

Mike flipped the folder he'd been scanning closed and gave the phone his complete attention. "What's up, Tim?"

"Body in the trunk of a car, Arizona license plates, been there a week or more, M.E.'s working on a cause of death now. Gee said, over the state line, call the feds, so I'm calling, Fed."

Even over the phone line, Mike could see the little grin that accompanied the teasing. He and Tim had become friends over crab in Miami and crab all around the Inner Harbor. It made it a little easier fitting in to the hustle at the BPD, especially since relations with his father were still strained, to say the least. "Sounds like my kinda find, Tim. I'll be over in, oh, about twenty minutes or so."

"Meet me at the morgue."

"It's a date." With a chuckle, he hung up. Bayliss was fun, in an oddball sort of way. He hadn't worked with him directly since they'd cracked the poisoned wine case, and it would be good to team up with him again. Especially on a case where he wasn't the team leader.

Or being undermined by his father.

He shook off the depressive thoughts of his tangled relationship with his dad and headed out to go to work. After being an active undercover agent for a few years, liaison work was boring him half to death. A little action would be a _very_ good thing right about now.

Four days later he was in the thick of the investigation, and he and Tim were clicking like a finely tuned engine. Reading through two depositions of family members of the dead woman, he was trying to find a correlation between two time disparities when Rene Sheppard sashayed through the door. Triumph at cracking a hard case was written all over her and Mike appreciated the results. The woman glowed.

Bayliss came in the room on her heels, and she impulsively grabbed his hand and waltzed him around the small space between the desks, making Gharty snort, Lewis grumble, Ballard laugh out loud and Munch start pontificating softly on the Romance of Dancing Giants. Mike tilted his head, watching more intently, caught by the ease and sparkle between the two detectives. When Sheppard let Bayliss go with a courtly bow, which he returned, Bayliss wandered over to join Mike, still grinning like a very tall leprechaun.

"You two an item?" Mike's lips clamped shut. He had _no_ idea where that had come from. Bayliss looked wistful for a moment then shook his head.

"Nah. We’re friends. Rene's a good person to have as a friend."

Mike quickly changed the subject back to the case on hand, and the moment was forgotten. By Bayliss.

Not necessarily by Mike.

Two days later, Tim took Mike to a bright, cheerful Italian restaurant, where the fettuccine was incredible and the tiramisu was a religious experience. They tossed ideas back and forth about motives, timing, opportunity, the frailty of human connections, greed and bad luck. Halfway through the meal, a good looking man in his mid-thirties with a quick smile and a mop of dark hair stopped at their table.

"Hey, Tim, it's about time you stopped by!"

Bayliss looked up at the man, and his entire face softened into a smile. Mike stared. The only other time he'd ever seen that look on Tim's face was … when Tim had asked him out at the Waterfront. Mike found himself staring back and forth between the two smiling faces like a spectator at a tennis match as the men chatted with the ease of old, and close, friends.

"Chris, this is Mike Giardello, our friendly neighborhood fed. Mike, this is Chris Rawls, the owner and principle chef of this wonderful establishment." Tim was beaming. Mike felt completely off-balance and had no idea why.

"Nice to meet you, Chris," he managed, waving in the general direction of their plates. "This is great."

"Nice to meet you, too, Mike," Chris returned with a hint of mischief. Mike's felt his center shift a little more. "Enjoy yourselves. And Tim, don't be a stranger." His hand reached down and clasped Bayliss' shoulder, not a suggestive touch in itself, but it lingered, and the warmth in Tim's answering smile gave the whole interchange a completely unexpected dimension.

"Nice guy," Mike offered. Tim gave him a bashful smile.

"Good friend." He started to return to the previous topic, about being in the wrong place at the wrong time in the right kind of vehicle, when Mike interrupted.

"Are you lovers?" Mike's jaw clamped down so tight he nearly bit the end of his tongue off.

Tim stared at him, expressionlessly, for a long moment. "Occasionally," he finally answered. "That bother you?"

"No," Mike answered less than truthfully. It did, but not for the reasons he thought it should. For reasons he didn't want to go into at that moment. Maybe not ever. "But there's a real warmth between the two of you. It's nice to see."

Bayliss thawed, nodded, seemed to accept his explanation. Mike let loose the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and said, innocently, "So, you think it was just a case of bad timing, huh? And her brother's taking out a policy on her less than six months before was just a coincidence?"

Back to business. Tim shot Mike one last confused look, then followed his lead.

That night, the dreams started.

Mike had gotten used to dreams, ever since he moved back to Baltimore. He had nightmares about cleaning up the blood from Mario's murder, the streaks of crimson fluid staining the tiles, seeping into the floor. The claustrophobia of being around his family, escaped for a few years by moving to the Southwest, sometimes caught up with him, and he'd dream he was locked in a tiny walled room, and the walls were closing in on him. Or that he'd been cast into a serpent's den, a huge boa constrictor, that had coiled its body around his limbs and was opening its jaws to swallow him whole. The worst part about that particular dream was that the snake had his father's face.

But these dreams were different. No blood, no suffocating bricks, no crushing serpent. Just a big, soft bed, with crisp linens rumpled on it. A long, slender, pale body moving over and around his. Warm lips breathing puffs of air over his skin, a rough tongue lapping at him. Large clever hands running over and over his arms, shoulders, down his back, holding his head. Kisses and touches everywhere.

Everywhere.

Tight heat enveloping him, between strong thighs, in a wet, voracious mouth, by those talented fingers, everywhere and anywhere. Nothing was forbidden. Nothing was taboo. Nothing was unthinkable.

He woke up, sweating, heart pounding, eyes staring wide at the ceiling, semen drying along his belly, arms and legs trembling. He hadn't had wet dreams since he'd been getting it steadily -- even if it was with his ex.

He hadn't had wet dreams, like _this_, since he was a teenager.

Very late at night, or very early in the morning, he'd lay there, slowly coming down, and wonder why now, why this guy. Was it all the heavy emotional shit he'd been dealing with ever since Mario had been killed and he'd come back to Baltimore? He was screwed up about everything else -- maybe this was just one more kink for his psyche to deal with. Maybe it was because he was so far from his … what would he call her. They weren't lovers, anymore. Hell, they probably weren't even friends, after he left Arizona without so much as a phone call.

He hadn't known what to say. He still didn't. Just like he didn't know what to say now. Or what to do. Or why the hell this was all coming down on him _now_.

The dreams started seeping into his day life. He found himself distracted, not enough to really detract from the work they were doing on the case, but by the little things. The way Bayliss' skin glowed in the sunlight through the car window as they sat on a stakeout. The guy's aftershave. The lanky grace of the long body. Hell, even the way he twitched when they'd been sitting too long and his back started to hurt.

It was making Mike nuts.

Less than a week of nightly dreams had made him very antsy about the whole situation. Sitting at Stivers' desk one day, spending more time peering surreptitiously at Bayliss than he was at the papers in front of him, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice whispered in his ear, "Want some advice?"

He looked up into Laura Ballard's quizzical face. "On what?"

"Take it for what it's worth. You never know if you don't ask." Then she winked at him, walked past Tim's desk, punched her fellow detective on the shoulder, got a friendly if preoccupied smile in return, and continued on into the break room.

Mike felt like he had a big sign over his head, in bright red neon, spelling out "CONFUSED."

More from Bayliss' persistence than any good fortune or stellar work from the Federal half of the investigating team, they managed to crack the case. Bayliss was right, as Mike suspected, and it had tied into the brother -- but not the policy. The man was a widower, and the victim had intended to go to court to take the brother's five year old daughter away from him. The bad thing was the man had flipped, killed his sister, stuffed her body in the trunk of her Lexus, and put it in a high theft area of Flagstaff with the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition. The good thing, if it could be called that, was that the allegations of child abuse that had prompted the murder victim to seek custody in the first place were finally being investigated.

They turned over the information they had to the Flagstaff PD, and Mike congratulated Tim on an excellent job. Bayliss didn't look real enthusiastic.

"What's the matter, Tim? You did well." Mike leaned over the detective, who was half sprawled at his desk, looking depressed and frustrated.

"**We** did well. Too little too late, but we at least stopped the son of a bitch."

Mike propped a hip on the corner of Tim's desk. "What do you mean, too little too late?"

Bayliss' eyes flashed up to meet his, and he was surprised by the depth of misery in them. Then they fixed on the pencil Tim was rapping against the edge of the desk. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. So, what are you off to next?"

He didn't take the out, instead reaching down with one finger to stop the irregular tapping that was getting on his nerves. "Well, tonight, I was thinking perhaps a celebration dinner might be in order. What do you say? Crabs at OBrycki's? I'll buy."

The pencil stopped, but Tim's eyes stayed glued to it. "Thanks, Mike, but I'm not really in the mood to go out anywhere. Just gonna take some quiet time."

Mike pursed his lips. For some reason, he didn't want to leave it alone. Or to leave Tim alone. Something about that look had gotten to him. "Okay, we can do OBrycki's another time. How about you come over to my place and try some of that Merlot John brought back from Seattle?"

Tim finally looked up at him. The misery was muted, and the walls had gone back up. Mike looked as inviting as he could. He didn't like the walls. Made him angry. He didn't quite know why.

"Sure," Bayliss finally agreed. "I'd like that."

"Good. Grab your coat."

Tim looked up at the clock, surprised to find it already almost seven. Shift had ended at six. "Meet you there?"

Mike grinned. "Bring an appetite. I have a wok and I'm not afraid to use it."

He managed to sneak some shrimp into the vegetable stir fry, and the wine was just as good as Munch had proclaimed. But the indefinable air of sadness that Bayliss had been carrying since they'd gotten the goods on the father in the case still clung to him. Eventually, Mike cleared the dishes and they took the second bottle into the living room. Sprawling lazily on the couch, Mike topped Tim's glass, and asked softly, "Wanna tell me about it?"

Tim stared down into his wine, swirling it gently against the sides of the glass. "What?"

"You can play dumb if you want," Mike allowed. "But it's eating you. Maybe talking will help."

Tim laughed. It wasn't very long and it wasn't particularly pleasant. "People abusing the trust, not to mention the bodies, of children. Nothing will help. Not even killing the bastards."

Mike settled into the cushions of the couch. There was a story here. Eventually he'd get it. "Can you tell me about it?" Quiet. Concerned. Tim swallowed half his glass of wine in one gulp. Mike found himself staring at the tip of Tim's tongue as it cleared the last few drops from his lips. Shaking off both his sudden preoccupation and the heat that was singing through his groin, he forced himself to tune back into what Bayliss was saying.

"-for a long time. Condemned anything other than the straight and narrow, and I got pretty damned narrow at times. Didn't really know where the anger was coming from. Then, when I did, when I finally remembered all that he had done to me … it was like … I don't know. It didn't heal. Hasn't yet. But I'm not angry with myself anymore. I can **feel**. And it's not shameful. Or dirty. It's just … **feeling**."

A few moments passed, and Mike tried to find a way to dig a little deeper without accidentally tearing any wounds open. Before he could come up with any questions that didn't sound like a grilling, Tim asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" Mike asked, at a loss.

"Why are you wondering?"

"You've got me curious." That was one way of putting it.

"About what? Not just the case." Hazel eyes pinned him to the cushions, and Mike tried not to squirm.

"No," he admitted shakily. "Not just the case. More … personal." He reached for the wine bottle, stared at the last drop in the bottom, and headed for the kitchen for more. "You thirsty?"

"I'm buzzed," Tim admitted. Mike could feel his eyes following him all the way to the pantry and back. When he got re-settled on the couch, he took a deep breath, and dove right in.

 

It had been a tough case, a tougher conclusion. Tim had been hyperaware of Mike Giardello the entire time. He wasn't sure what it was that was causing it, but his skin itched, and he felt … light. Flirty. On show. Something. It was freaky.

It was a hell of a turn on.

Other people must have picked up on it, because Rene was playing word games with him, Laura was egging him on, even Chris had made it clear as crystal at the restaurant, at lunch hour no less! that he was more than willing to hop into the sack for a return bout. But Tim didn't act on any of it.

He was too high on the ambient energy to chance losing it.

Then the case came together, and the bubble of enjoyment collapsed in on itself. Suddenly it wasn't about the groove he and Mike had hit, or the triumph of breaking the lock, putting the puzzle together. It was about a little kid, and a woman who tried to save that kid from the one adult in the world who should have taken care of her, and how a family had been blown to pieces because of the sickness of that one adult.

And it would be the kid who would carry the scars.

So when Mike asked him over for dinner, it wasn't a chance to celebrate a successful conclusion to the case. It wasn't even on the pretext of drowning his memories in a couple bottles of good wine. It was because Grown Up Tim didn't want to have to listen to Little Tim, didn't want to remember Uncle George, just wanted for once to get on with it.

Get on with it.

Then Mike had to go and pull the scab off. And let him bleed all over the couch.

He watched the other man bring a fresh bottle of wine in, knowing he wouldn't be drinking any. He'd had too much already. His tongue was loose at both ends. Mike settled down, and he asked, curious and half afraid to find out what Mike had meant, "Personal how?"

Dark brown eyes stared into his, like they were looking right through him. Tim felt totally naked, sitting there without so much as a button undone. Mike set his glass down and propped one elbow against the back of the couch, leaning toward Tim.

"I don't know what it is. Don't know if it's loneliness, or you, yourself, or the changes that are going on in my life, that are suddenly making me open up to possibilities. Made me think. About a lot of things." His hand dropped, and he was suddenly closer than Tim had thought he was, one hand curving behind Tim's neck, not pulling, no pressure, just resting there. A shiver crawled from the nape of his neck all the way over his scalp.

Going with the intent, hoping he was reading it right, Tim leaned forward. Angled his head. An instant before their lips met, closed his eyes. It was short. Gentle. Unexpectedly sweet.

Then Mike had to go and open his mouth.

The first sweep of tongue over his teeth, the tap of the tip on the roof of his mouth, did him in. He sucked hungrily, angling further, reaching deeper, opening wider. When the tongue went back where it belonged, he nearly followed, catching himself at the last minute. He opened his eyes and stared at Mike, who looked just as dazed as he felt.

Forcing himself back, meeting unexpected resistance in the hand that was grabbing the back of his neck, he asked hoarsely, "What are you thinking now?"

He wasn't answered in words, but Mike leaned forward, pressed him into the cushions, and made a meal of his mouth.

Somewhere between passing out from lack of oxygen and wiggling around to help Mike unbutton his shirt, he heard a sound that didn't belong. A click, a slide of wood, something … but it stayed at the perimeter of his thoughts, and then Mike managed to get his zipper down, and his thoughts scattered like smoke. Forcing himself to at least try to rein them in, Tim wrenched his head away and gulped air.

"Mike? Bed?" Monosyllables were the best he could do, but from Mike's reaction he was still one up on the other guy. Mike couldn't even talk. He just propelled himself up off Tim, grabbed him by the hand, and hauled him down the hallway to the bedroom.

Not that Tim was complaining.

As he bounced onto the bed and Mike started a truly determined assault on his clothes, he managed to ask, "Done this before?"

"Nope," Mike answered without even slowing down. Tim shifted, toed off his shoes and lifted his hips for Mike to strip his pants off him.

"Know what you're doing?" Better. Actually understandable. Then Mike looked down at him, finished throwing off the rest of his own clothes, and grunted, "Going with instinct" before kissing him brainless again.

Okay. Instinct worked.

Pretty damned well, in fact.

 

Just a few blocks down, Al Giardello stared into a glass of whiskey and tried to shut off his mind. He'd gone over on an impulse. He'd use the floor as an excuse, wanting to see how Mike's tiling had taken, how badly it had buckled. But he'd really just wanted to see his boy.

Boy. Had he.

He'd knocked. No answer, but the light had been on. There'd been voices. Habit kicked in, forty years of it being Mario's house, no locks, in and out like a revolving door. So he'd gone in.

In time to see his son latching on to one of his own detectives, one of his _male_ detectives, and trying his damnedest to suck said detective's tonsils out through his face.

Gee didn't know whether to laugh, yell, or be sick.

By eight the next morning, he still wasn't certain. But he had to do something. And when Bayliss rolled in looking like a man who had been well and truly satisfied, the instinct to yell took precedence over all other conflicting urges. The only problem was, he wasn't quite sure how to address this. What to yell. And at whom.

After all, it hadn't been Bayliss jumping Mike, not from what he'd witnessed. It had been Mike jumping Bayliss. Even if Bayliss had wanted to say no, Gee wasn't sure he could have. Mike had been pretty thorough.

Steaming around his desk, he yanked the door open. "Detective Bayliss! My office!"

To hell with it. He'd figure out what to say when he had to say it.

 

Tim was almost to his desk when his boss' bellow made him jump half out of his skin. Abruptly, the feeling of well-being that had drenched every cell in his body dispersed as if he'd been dunked in a tub of ice water. Rapidly reviewing the status of his current cases, every word he could remember saying in the last week, and every brush with the press he could bring to mind, he couldn't come up with an immediate reason for the summons.

"Sir?" He edged into Gee's office. The lieutenant waved him further in.

"Shut the door."

He did, but didn't move far from it. There was something volcanic about Gee this morning. Whatever he'd stepped in, it was deep. He kept his mouth shut, looked attentive and as penitent as he could considering he hadn't a clue what was going on, and waited for the hammer to fall.

Gee seemed oddly unsure about exactly how he wanted to verbally blast him into oblivion. If anything, that just made him more nervous. Finally, Gee looked up at him and frowned. Ferociously.

"You are aware that, while there is no precinct policy distinctly addressing fraternization, it is frowned upon. For very valid reasons. So if you are going to participate in a liaison with a fellow officer of the law, you must be discreet to the point of paranoia. You may even wish to re-think your course of action."

Tim stared at him. The only thing he could think of that had been anything near provocative with one of his fellow detectives was when Sheppard had waltzed him around the room the previous day. The only verbal response he could come up with was, 'huh?' which he didn't think would go over very well. Finally his brain pried out a single word that seemed out of place in Gee's usual precise choice of language.

"Liaison?" It sounded like something out of the nineteenth century, with Glenn Close and John Malkovitch. He couldn’t' completely suppress his grin at the mental image of himself and Rene in period costume. "I assure you, Gee, I'm not having an affair with anyone in the squad."

For some reason, Gee's expression grew even more rumpled. "I'm not talking about your fellow murder police, Bayliss. I mean between agencies, **not** between detectives." Tim stared at him, and Gee continued, much more softly, but quite distinctly. "I still have a spare key to my cousin Mario's house."

The room spun. The bagel he'd had for breakfast revolted, and all his blood drained from his head to the soles of his feet. He _had_ heard a click.

And Gee had gotten quite an eyeful.

He didn't know if he said anything. Didn't remember opening the door, or wandering out into the bullpen. Next thing he knew, he was standing beside his desk, Stivers was asking if he was okay, and Mike was coming up behind him, calling out greetings and laying a light hand on his shoulder. He swung around, and Mike froze. God only knew what his face looked like.

"Talk," he got out in as normal a voice as he could manage, which sounded like he'd strangled to death. Mike nodded and opened his mouth. "Outside," Tim ground out, and spun on his heel, heading for the stairs before Mike could say anything.

God forbid they should be indiscreet, after all.

They made it to the front walk, and Mike finally caught up with him. Grabbing him by the elbow, he spun him around so that they were facing one another.

"Tim? What the hell's going on? Are you okay?"

He fell into those deep, concerned eyes, and his mouth opened, words tumbling out, quietly, no thought at all behind them. Shock did that to him. Either he clammed up completely or he started to babble. This was a babble situation.

"This is bad. This is very bad. This is so bad I can't even think how bad this is."

"What?" Mike was looking a little fried by that point. Tim could empathize.

"Your dad has a key," he informed his latest lover bluntly. "And he's not afraid to use it. He has, in fact." He stopped, swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut then opened them to look down at Mike again. "Last night."

Mike looked like he was about to faint. Tim could relate. Then Mike's skin darkened as anger flashed through him, and he grabbed Tim by the wrist and hauled him back up the stairs. He was trying too hard not to trip over his feet to think about what was happening, then another one of those weird lost time periods hit and next thing he knew he was yanked to a stop right outside Gee's door. Mike planted him there, caught hold of his shoulders, pulled his head down until they were level, and kissed him hard enough to bruise his lips and make his jaw ache. Then he let go of him as abruptly as he'd grabbed him, turned on his heel and barged into Gee's office.

Tim shook his head, shoved his glasses up on his nose, waited for the steam to clear, and turned around to face his coworkers, more than a little unsteady on his feet. Lewis, Ballard, Munch and Sheppard stared back at him in total shock.

That did it. The bagel had had enough. He hit the door at a near run, and made it to the bathroom just in time to lose his breakfast.

 

It was more of a shouting match than a conversation. Three snarls into it, his father shouldered past him and stuck his head out the door. "Bayliss!" Mike shoved his way out the door, looking for Tim, who was nowhere to be seen.

"Timmy headed for the bathroom at high speed," Munch offered.

Mike whirled on his father. "Don't you **ever** come into my home again without permission," he growled, then turned to follow Tim, make sure he was okay. His dad was on his heels all the way into the men's room.

Tim looked like a ghost, no color anywhere in his face except for two small spots high on his cheekbones. His eyes looked like they were on fire, and he was shaking, holding on to the edge of the sink for balance. He saw them come into the room in the mirror, and spoke before either could say a word.

"What the hell is with you two?" he spat out. "I was more than willing to be discreet. But that's hard to do with you bellowing like a fucking harbor seal, Gee. And the only thing I wanted to do was tell you that your dad had a key, Mike. I wasn't going to say a word, didn't mind if you were only using me to keep the loneliness at bay, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be the whipping boy in your private little war. Tear each other up if you have to, but leave me the hell out of it!" Then he lurched back into the stall, and started retching again.

Mike looked at his father, stricken, and Gee looked to be just as much in shock. Staring at the soles of Tim's shoes under the edge of the door, he said quietly, "Damn. I'm sorry, Tim." From beside him, his father reached out and patted him, once, on the arm, very gently.

"I'm sorry, too, Mike." Then Gee moved forward to check on his detective. Mike leaned against the wall, wondering when they'd all slipped into the Twilight Zone and how the hell they would get back out of it. And if Tim would be able to get past this. He hoped so.

Last night had been … an eye opener.

He licked his lips, searching his mind for something, anything to say, when the door opened. Meldrick Lewis bounced in, seeing Mike but not noticing the occupants of the far stall.

"So, 'zat the way they do business down in the Old West? Layin' wet ones on the local con-sta-bu-lary?"

A minor earthquake hit as Gee was suddenly all over Lewis like a landslide. "I hear one word about any of this, in any form, from any person, and I will personally nail your balls to the table in the box. Do you understand me, Detective?"

Lewis paled several shades and visibly quaked. "Yessir. Not only will no word pass my lips, but neither will anybody else's."

It hadn't made much sense, but the meaning was clear. Lewis was cowed. Thoroughly. He'd make sure what started in the squad stayed in the squad. And since he was the biggest gossip _on_ the squad, then Mike's major fuckup should be pretty well buried.

He hoped.

 

Following Gee back out into the bullpen, Mike right beside him, Bayliss couldn't see the expression on the Lieutenant's face. But he could easily see the results. Munch suddenly found a file of supreme interest, Ballard started typing up a storm on the computer, Sheppard instantly screwed a phone into her ear, and Lewis began scratching away on a pad of paper like his life depended on it.

Tim had a cowardly urge to go back to bed and start the day over. Rewind, cut that, re-shoot. Except the bed he'd crawl back into would be Mike's. Which had been, in a way, the cause of the whole disaster. Then a warm hand settled in the small of his back, a touch of support where no one else could see it, and he felt a little better.

Maybe some good would come of this Titanic. Maybe.

He went directly to his desk, pulled an old file out, and stared at it as if he was memorizing it. Mike sat down at the computer and began punching keys, from the sound of it, at random. Tim felt a presence beside his desk and looked up to see Sheppard, a concerned look in her eyes but a completely calm expression on her face, standing next to his desk. She asked a question, something about a toxicology result, and he said something, he had no clue what. He glanced across the room and saw Ballard gently scootching Mike out of the way, typing something on the computer, asking Mike questions. His heart rate finally started to go back down to approaching normal, and his stomach started to crawl out of his throat.

Falsone wandered in the door, tossing an orange from hand to hand. The atmosphere must have penetrated, because he looked around and asked the room at large, "So, what's up?"

Six voices in unison said, firmly, "**Nothing**!"

He shrugged. Just another day in Homicide.

 

The day had lasted five years, to Bayliss, but it was finally over. It had been a little easier when Mike had finally left to go back to his office, and no one had mentioned The Kiss or Hurricane Gee. He didn't know how long the grace period would last, but he was hoping for a very, very, very long time. Forever sounded pretty good.

He made it home, stared at the food in the fridge, shut the door without taking anything. Then he flipped on a CD, lit a candle, curled up on the floor, and tried his best to meditate. James Galway wasn't exactly standard Buddhist fare, but the Wayward Wind helped him focus.

And not only did he need to focus tonight, he needed all the help he could get.

Twenty minutes into his meditation session, which admittedly wasn't going well, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Uncurling himself, he stretched his back and looked out through the peephole.

Beware of FBI agents bearing gifts. He rested his forehead against the cool wood of the door for a few moments, then opened it just as Mike was lifting his fist to knock again. He nearly got a handful of knuckles on his glasses. Mike blushed.

"Hi," he offered. "Can I come in?"

Tim sucked in his lower lip, then stepped back and waved toward the living room. This was probably insane. But then, it wasn't like he could stuff himself back in the closet. Not when half the precinct already thought he was gay, and most especially not after Mike's performance that morning.

He turned around to see Mike setting out takeout cartons of tofu, veggies, noodles, and another bottle of that damned Merlot. Tim lifted it up and stared at it, then showed it off, Vanna-style, to Mike. "Behold the root of temptation!" He put the bottle down on the table with a dull clunk. "I don't know if this is a good idea."

Mike fidgeted with the cartons for a moment more, then stopped, took a deep breath, and looked directly at him. "It wasn't just loneliness, you know."

"Do I?" He'd meant it to be a challenge. It came out more a plea for reassurance. Mike took it for an invitation, and invaded his personal space, getting right up in his face.

"Yes. I sure hope so." Then Mike kissed him.

He wanted to resist. At least, he thought he'd wanted to resist. After all, whatever the motivation, Mike had embarrassed the hell out of him that morning.

On the other hand, Mike had made love to him the night before like he'd really meant it. And from the way he was putting his all into this kiss, Tim thought fuzzily, it felt like round two was going to make round one look like child's play.

It did. And then some.

There was a trail of clothes from the kitchen to the bedroom. His glasses ended up on the counter, next to the tofu that didn't get eaten. The Merlot went with them.

Three hours later, throat hoarse, utterly exhausted, Tim pulled Mike next to him and draped the smaller man over the top of him. Mike nuzzled into his throat, and Tim wasn't sure, but he thought he purred.

"Hope they don't call the cops," came the sleepy comment from the general vicinity of his Adam's apple.

"For what?" he asked, absently, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

"Noisy. Apartment neighbors always bitch about the noise."

Tim grinned and blew a strand of Mike's hair away from his lips. "Got one advantage over your house."

"Whassat?" Mike slurred, more than half asleep.

"Boss man doesn't have a key." Tim laid his cheek against Mike's temple, letting him know it was okay. He could feel the answering smile against the side of his neck.

"Thank god."

He couldn't help but agree.

_FINIS_


End file.
